Your Sin To Cast Away
by Val-Creative
Summary: She never wanted anything more in her life than to be here. With him, in the North, learning about the truth of the stars and skies and a person's heart. What made Lord Asriel who he was. And now, Lyra can hardly stand the very sight of him. (Episode 8-centric.)


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Lyra knows this is no ordinary time in her young, turbulent life. She's come to a dangerous place.

Deep in the multitudes of snowy-white valleys and peaks and ridges carved out by time, Lord Asriel's dwelling sits upon the ice and tumbled rocks. A waifish, pitch-black crag down below. It's more of a wondrous spectacle than any form of prison.

When first she entered, Lyra stood in amazement by the view of her father's several laboratories. The sharpness smoothed out of the grey, massive boulders pressing together as walls. She has grown accustomed to the warm naphtha-glow and the flickering, dingy sheen of blubber lamps, but the lights towards the endless ceiling are severe and white. Anbaric in nature.

And yet still the most _dangerous_ part of this is…

Thorold promises the bath will be heated to a perfect temperature. He leans over, ruffling her hair playfully, giving a wide, unassuming smile. One that reminds her of Farder Coram. She doesn't understand how her father's manservant concerns himself to her well-being _more_ than Lord Asriel slinking up high, high above them all, perambulating the leaden steel-grates.

She's been afraid of Lord Asriel before. His tall and powerful stature. When his anger overcomes him. When he twists her wrist and her forearm behind her until Lyra's shoulder quakes. She's been afraid of Lord Asriel suddenly no longer wanting her.

_I shall master my fear… …_

Lyra repeats this in her mind, climbing up the railed staircase, gripping with a bare hand. Her dark, stringy hair cooling with bathwater. Pantalaimon tucks himself under her shirt-collar, as a dormouse, reminding Lyra of a warm and comforting presence.

Her father, across the way, has his back turned. He discarded his worn, brown apron and his googles. Lord Asriel's fingers rake into his hair, the gold ring upon his left pinky finger illuminating. Lyra recognises its familiarity. It's a gyptian ring, but not made of the silver-pieces like Tony's and Ma Costa's. Theirs has the silhouette of a hawk, while Lord Asriel has what appears to be a large cat.

She walks towards him, passing the stacks of reports and loose wires. Tools so bewildering.

By the clear, teal-lit glass, Lord Asriel observes the mountaintop across them. He mutters to Stelmaria purring out her answer. His hand traces a complex and formulaic line markered to the glass-window. Silvery as the wisps in Asriel's brown hair.

He's cruel and beautiful and dark. Lyra knows this. And somehow still she won't leave.

Lord Asriel whips around when she's halfway to him, fixated to one of his battery-devices. Stelmaria, however, puts herself between her human and Lyra. Her tawny eyes unblinking. He doesn't look at her. "If you have got something to say," Lord Asriel announces with enough bearing for Lyra to hear. "Then it is best you say it now before you are sent off to bed."

_"I hate you."_

The words burn tingling-hot on her own mouth.

Pantalaimon squeaks in fear. Lord Asriel's hand drops heavily onto his table, banging his wrench. He glances around to her, startled, eyes widening drastically. Lyra nearly stumbles into a expensive, large telescope, frightened of her own nerve.

Silences hangs, thickening, between them. Lord Asriel composes himself, grinding a palm over his face.

"Yes," he says, acknowledging her statement. "Is there a particular reason for this…"

Lyra lets out a breathy, unpleasant chuckle. Her teeth expose.

"Do you even _care_? Do you care that your own daughter would rather call a panserbjørn her father _than her own father_?" she asks. Her voice rises soft as birdsong. "No, I expect you don't. You haven't shown me any regard except when you're angry. Or if you want to take your anger out on someone else."

His throat visibly clenches. There's walls all around Lord Asriel, it seems. She would tear them apart.

"You're nothing but a liar. You're a tyrant and hardhearted and _cold_," Lyra tells him, her feral-like grin disappearing. She wants him to fade from her existence, Lyra thinks. Every sliver of him. To leave none of Lord Asriel Belacqua remaining in her. "Did you, for one moment, love me? Truly _love me_?" He goes back to staring down at the table, brow furrowing. Lord Asriel's blue eyes falling shut. Lyra grits her jaw, pounding a fist to the other tabletop. "_ANSWER ME_—!" she yells high-pitched.

Lord Asriel huffs through his nostrils. He scowls at her. "You're a spoiled little girl—"

"And you en't my _FATHER_! My father _WOULDN'T_ treat me like this! Fathers are supposed to _LOVE_ their daughters!" Lyra yells out again, her cheeks flushed bright pink. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Pantalaimon turn himself into a cobra, rearing up and hissing by Lyra's fist. Stelmaria rumbles faintly, deeply in the back of her throat. "All I have ever been to you was a _MISTAKE_, wasn't it?" Lyra adds, slow and purposeful, but no less louder. "Wasn't I your _SIN_ to cast away, Father? Wasn't I the reason you had _EVERYTHING_ taken from you? Your land? Your wealth? The respect of the men who once feared you?"

_"No…"_

One of his walls breaks, splinters down the middle. Lyra won't let him place it down up. Not this time.

"No?" she mocks, stepping forward.

_"No, no…"_

"No, you shan't tell me? No, you never cared or loved me?"

Lord Asriel's expression becomes a grimace. His facial-lines harden. He turns from his work-table, to her, to his daughter.

She never wanted anything more in her life than to be here. With him, in the North, learning about the truth of the stars and skies and a person's heart. What made him who he was. And now, Lyra can hardly stand the very sight of him as Lord Asriel walks past his snow leopard daemon, somehow thinking that getting closer to her would right these many wrongs.

_"Lyra__…"_

Hearing him say her name lowly, and heartbroken, trembles Lyra's lips.

"I love you," she whispers, furiously looking up and discovering no victory in how his blue eyes moisten. "I hate you, and I love you, and I don't want to feel this." An almost-sob escapes her. "But I'm not you… _I'm not_…"

Before he can move, Lyra rushes in, hugging her arms around him. Her tear-streaked face presses insistently into Lord Asriel's brown, knitted sweater, hearing a sharp gasp from him. They've never hugged. Not once. Lyra has never been this angry with him either, but hugs him so tightly that Lord Asriel cannot hope to pull away without taking her with him. Her father's hands dig into Lyra's shoulders, clawing. She stays firm. It's nearly _painful_, how he struggles against her, tensing, growling out.

It doesn't last. Lyra can feel him giving in, hanging over her. A soundless shudder courses through Lord Asriel's body.

She feels the wetness dripping onto her head.

_Tears?_

Since when has her father ever shed any _tears_ for her? For himself?

He should be crying, Lyra tells herself, sternly burrowing her nose and forehead to his abdomen. Her heart thunders in her chest. Lord Asriel should feel sorry for deceiving her, for making her terrified of him and sorry for him.

"I haven't forgiven you…" Lyra mutters.

A stifled, watery laugh.

_"I know."_

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End file.
